Preview — Kubuś Fatalista i jego pan
by Denis Diderot

Kubuś Fatalista i jego pan

Jacques the Fatalist is a provocative exploration of the problems of human existence, destiny, and free will. In the introduction to this brilliant translation, David Coward explains the philosophical basis of Diderot's fascination with fate and examines the experimental and influential literary techniques that make Jacques the Fatalist a classic of the Enlightenment.

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Master: Do you pray?Jacques: SometimesMaster: And what do you say?Jacques: I say: "Thou who mad'st the Great Scroll, whatever Thou art, Thou whose finger hast traced the Writing Up Above, Thou hast known for all time what I needed, Thy will be done. Amen."Master: Don't you think you would do just as well if you shut up?

It is often too easy for me to forget that high humor and religious cynicism are not new developments within the realm of published fiction. On top of that, as much as we readersMaster: Do you pray?Jacques: SometimesMaster: And what do you say?Jacques: I say: "Thou who mad'st the Great Scroll, whatever Thou art, Thou whose finger hast traced the Writing Up Above, Thou hast known for all time what I needed, Thy will be done. Amen."Master: Don't you think you would do just as well if you shut up?

It is often too easy for me to forget that high humor and religious cynicism are not new developments within the realm of published fiction. On top of that, as much as we readers here about "pomo trickery" and meta-humor, these terms--often used as insults akin to calling someone "trendy"--are generally associated with literature no more than a century old. Well, to all you pomos and popomos: allow me to introduce you to Denis Diderot. He is your metatastic brother from another great-great-great-great-great-grandmother. At some point before his death in 1784, he composed Jacques the Fatalist (in some editions titled Jacques the Fatalist and His Master, an arguably better name because of the fact that it directly references the text's play on character power dynamics). 1784. Remember that.

This "novel", written in the stage play style seen above combined with frequent asides by an omniscient, brassy narrator, tells the story of real-life-storytelling as depicted in written form. Diderot breaks down the common motifs of the stock "novel", holding its cliches in one hand and the reality of conversing with other human beings in the other. The dialogue is the same interrupted, rambling, endless swirl of words that we tend to find in actual attempts at expressing ourselves verbally either one-on-one or in groups. Therefore, stories are begun and left unfinished, people are cut off, corrected, and reprimanded, and plot possibilities are dangled in front of the reader and left to his or her own particular devices, all while our playful, snarky narrator reminds us that there is no way we can know for a fact one way or another if he is being truthful, so why put stock in him or the story/stories in the first place? The book constantly re-references, repeats, mirrors/distorts, and criticizes itself in a way that calls to question all creative interpretations of reality due--amongst other things--to the biases reader, storyteller, and subject bring into the telephone game that is relaying information in a meaningful way. And it is amazingly funny while doing so. I would be willing to bet my lunch money that Charlie Kaufman is a huuuuge Diderot fan.

To go back to my earlier point...if you are religiously inclined, I would stay away from this book unless you are of a mind to read eloquently expressed, harshly stated opinions which conflict with your own. It is no secret that Diderot was a spiteful sort about organized religion, and he uses Jacques and his insistence on Predestination as means to excuse his debauchery (along with every other spiritual figure in the story, each of which is almost more corrupt than basically every non-religious character within this fictional realm) as a means to highlight the hypocrisy, escapism, and general slovenliness he saw in default spiritual beliefs. Proceed with caution, as this one does bite.

This story was a bit of an awakening for me. It may be the oldest piece of literature I have read which embraced meta-humor to such an extreme. As I previously stated, I tend to let myself think that this sort of thing is a new-ish development, a product of information over-saturation or something. However, Jacques the Fatalist is one of the most self-aware, admittedly (even brazenly) self-critical, and quite frankly hilarious novels about novel writing and reading that I have ever read. It constantly stops to reflect on itself, jarring you with by repeatedly pointing out that this is not an escape, this is not a reality, this is a story about stories within stories within stories, and you are reading it right now. The tangled mess that it eventually becomes reminded me in many ways of THIS bit of genius. ...more

For those exhausted or defeated by Tristram Shandy, here is a precursor to the postmodern novel that packs in more incident, philosophy, bitching and warm humour in its 237 pages than most modern avant-garde writers manage in a whole corpus. Jacques—the titular Fatalist—attempts to recount the tale of his “first loves” while accompanying his Master on a series of oblique misadventures that invariably end up as digressions and more digressions. All postmodern tricks—stories-within-stories, framesFor those exhausted or defeated by Tristram Shandy, here is a precursor to the postmodern novel that packs in more incident, philosophy, bitching and warm humour in its 237 pages than most modern avant-garde writers manage in a whole corpus. Jacques—the titular Fatalist—attempts to recount the tale of his “first loves” while accompanying his Master on a series of oblique misadventures that invariably end up as digressions and more digressions. All postmodern tricks—stories-within-stories, frames-within-frames, direct reader-insulting—are present, and better than in 1971. This is a wild and hilarious romp with a fiercely readable translation from the unfortunately named David Coward, and this edition has an exemplary introduction that neither squeezes all life from the work nor drowns it in academic verbiage. Proof once again the French are the true genitors of all great literature. So it was written up there, on high....more

It’s not that I know anything much about it first hand either as practitioner or as one who consumes the stuff so my diagnosis and treatment regimen are entirely oblique. But you know it is not so uncommon to hear the compliant about MFA=prose. Like I said, I don’t really know what that means because I a) don’t have an MFA b) probably don’t read people with MFA’s c) read lots(some?) of folks who teach MFA’s d) but don’t find anything particularly MFA-ish about them ; most oddly it’s a complaintIt’s not that I know anything much about it first hand either as practitioner or as one who consumes the stuff so my diagnosis and treatment regimen are entirely oblique. But you know it is not so uncommon to hear the compliant about MFA=prose. Like I said, I don’t really know what that means because I a) don’t have an MFA b) probably don’t read people with MFA’s c) read lots(some?) of folks who teach MFA’s d) but don’t find anything particularly MFA-ish about them ; most oddly it’s a complaint I heard once about Ms Young’s giant novel being MFA-ish which is totally weird except for the fact that she used to teach MFA’s in a Quonset hut over in Iowa City right about the time this whole thing blew up. And can you say that a Coover or a Barth (both made their dough from the eager young student=writer) are in any way MFA-ish? And ...... well, how about j) I don’t think it’s the prose that’s the problem ----- it’s the stuff that’s the matter. Not MFA=prose but MFA=Aboutness. And MFA=Form.

Okay, so much for an obliquely and uniquely uninformed diagnosis. The treatment regimen is basically the same as it has always been ; and this won’t work for everyone but everyone should take a look at it. So, first time as tragedy second as farce == and what I mean here as first is that Barth has already done it (redid what had already been done) and I’d suggest that if there be a cure for MFA=myopia it will be to repeat farcically what Barth has already repeated in the (farcically) tragic mode. I mean basically just a) skip the MFA and just read read read (read) and b) skip the twentieth and nineteenth centuries altogether -- they’ve been beaten to death (with the obvious exception of the Barth=model we are following here and Finnegans Wake which always goes without saying). Just skip all that crap. What I’m saying is, reawaken your story nerve and just fuck this stuff about prose gods! aren’t you tired of hearing about prose yet? Here are a few things to try ::

Jacques the FatalistThe Arcades Project (really a bit anachronistic, but just look at that Form!)The Anatomy of MelancholyThe Father’s The HistoriesAesop's FablesBurton's 1001 NightsThe History of the Peloponnesian War (among other such and similar)Plato The PancatantraThe Faerie QueeneLivy and all that Roman stuff.Gibbon's great Decline & Fall (goes without saying)Darwin if you're into that kind of thing.Homer=Virgil and related such epics from the Not=Greeks like those Sagas from Iceland and those other Scandinavian books.Hegel's Phenomenology is the standard Bildungsroman, so you'll want to avoid that one. Try Schelling's Ages of the World instead.Ovid.Those six Chinese classics.The Indian books Barth likes ; you know which (ie, anything with "River" or "Ocean" or both in its title).The Lais of Marie de FranceMiss MacIntosh, My Darling.Screw Proust.Any Arthurian thing that is not Monty=Python.Chaucer (the FAT 2005 Penguin edit’d by Jill Mann) and Boccaccio and such=not.Rabelais, naturally and the rest of the ever=increasing trinity.Stuff like Diderot and why not the whole L'Encyclopédie Diderot et d'Alembert.And then a really really BIG etc..........

You get the picture. Basically what I’m saying is don’t do a DFW and try to “overcome” postmodern fiction ; be rather like WTV and begin with the assumption of being already free of the PoMo dilemma ;; repeat the Barthian gesture in the name of not becoming trapped in the Barthian morass.

Or, if you want your prose to be totally knot=MFA, just do the thing Vonnegut did and go to school to learn about something about which you can mold the aboutness of your writing and totally screw the idea of learning HOW to write. You know the Best Stuff, The Canon, The Classics, were always written without the shackle of Doing It The Write Way. And for all I know, don’t read The New Yorker.

But=what does any of this have to do with Diderot? I don’t know. But there’s that thing about how Diderot hates novels. And novelists might be a little better off with a bit more of the despising of the thing they are creating. Maybe that’s it. ...more

It may be your destiny to read and adore the pithy wit of Diderot. At a time when the novel was new as a genre as a contemporary of Sterne and Richardson, Diderot confronts the religion and philosophy of his day entrenched in the idea that man's fate was written on a scroll on high and that man only acted out a bit part devoid of real choice in his slavery to destiny. Pre-destination did not sit well with Diderot and Jacques is the novelist in this "dog's breakfast" he has served up railing aginIt may be your destiny to read and adore the pithy wit of Diderot. At a time when the novel was new as a genre as a contemporary of Sterne and Richardson, Diderot confronts the religion and philosophy of his day entrenched in the idea that man's fate was written on a scroll on high and that man only acted out a bit part devoid of real choice in his slavery to destiny. Pre-destination did not sit well with Diderot and Jacques is the novelist in this "dog's breakfast" he has served up railing aginst his own genre to assert his humanity and freedom on his picaresque journey to nowhere. "Does anyone know where they're going?" certainly sounds like Beckett who lived in France and may well have read Diderot. Jacques is forced to conclude that people think they are in charge of their destiny when their destiny is in charge of them. What choice does the fatalist really have except to resign to his fate? Because life is a series of endless misunderstandings, it isn't easy to be captain of one's own soul. The epigrams are deliciously well phrased: "Virtue is an excellent thing. Both good people and wicked people speak highly of it." Or this: "I think there are some very odd things written up there on high." The wicked fable of the Sheath and the Knife is certainly memorable. Jacques is genuinely hilarious in many places and despite Diderot's scathing complaints of the early novel, he wrote an enduring classic beloved because of its pure wit, audacity, irony and uncanny phrasing. I urge you to read this great early novel destined to foretell the promise bound to follow for the genre. ...more

Diderot, it is a name less prestigious than Rousseau and Voltaire. We think of the Encyclopedia, some erotic novels well done (the libertins novels of XVIII are often boring). His tomb is not even in the Pantheon, contrary in two others.And then there was Kundera. And Kundera worships him. So I'm obliged to interest to him. Diderot was in jail for his ideas. To escape the censorship, he split up his writings. Paradoxically, I think that Diderot remains to discover.Thus Jacques the fatalist. WhyDiderot, it is a name less prestigious than Rousseau and Voltaire. We think of the Encyclopedia, some erotic novels well done (the libertins novels of XVIII ° are often boring). His tomb is not even in the Pantheon, contrary in two others.And then there was Kundera. And Kundera worships him. So I'm obliged to interest to him. Diderot was in jail for his ideas. To escape the censorship, he split up his writings. Paradoxically, I think that Diderot remains to discover.Thus Jacques the fatalist. Why fatalist? Literally, it is what is already said, what is already written. The fatalist it is someone who believes that all which arrives at him is written on a big book. The fate governs the world and one, has to bow before it. We attend an opposition identical to that of Dom Juan/Don Giovanni and his servant Léporello. Master laughs at his servant. He believes in the free arbitrator. But things complicate because Diderot does not believe in the free will. He has even a certain affection for Jacques who, even if he is fatalist, reacts with ingenuity in front of events. Jacques it is the fatalism without the resignation.This maieutics in fact is much more balanced than to da Ponte/Molière. Jacques is not ridiculous, he defends well himself. And we see the conceptions of Diderot taking shape. His obsession up to the death, it is the physiology. He is an admirer of the doctor Théophyle de Bordeu for whom the human individuality involves strengths far more complex than the simple Newton physics .These combinations are passed on by generations in generations and grow rich thanks to capacity of the brain. " The man is modifiable " Remarkable, it makes of him a precursor of the neurosciences.. And it is of the assertion of his individuality which we can break with the egotism.His conceptions are far from being mechanistic. Marx put him in the materialists but he made a mistake. It is Rousseau the inspirer of the revolutionaries and the Marxists.Diderot did not believe in God, but I think that there was in him a form of spirituality. It is a kind of religion of the man that he proposes." Man has only a single right, that of the justice, and a single duty, that to make happy. "

I'm too distracted to read this in French, since Sophocles is still giving me fits and, well, I do have a life. Besides, the translation I'm reading is wonderfully brisk and colloquial. How can you not love a novel from 1780 that begins with this Beckettian up-yours?:

How had they met? By chance, like everybody else. What were there names? What's it to you? Where were they coming from? From the nearest place. Where were they going? Does anyone really know where they're going?

I don't want to jinxI'm too distracted to read this in French, since Sophocles is still giving me fits and, well, I do have a life. Besides, the translation I'm reading is wonderfully brisk and colloquial. How can you not love a novel from 1780 that begins with this Beckettian up-yours?:

How had they met? By chance, like everybody else. What were there names? What's it to you? Where were they coming from? From the nearest place. Where were they going? Does anyone really know where they're going?

I don't want to jinx myself, but I think this might be just the thing to break my recent streak of Books Tossed Aside with a Jaded Shrug. ...more

this book really has something. its style is as innovative now as it was in diderot's time, and the ideas being articulated, then ground-breaking, are still worth some thoughts. for a work of this age, it's surprisingly easy to be read, and the difficulties arise from elsewhere then expected. the storyline is permanently interrupted by stories, dialogues, and the narrator, suddenly starting to talk to the reader about the trustworthiness of the former reports, so sometimes it's hard to reorientathis book really has something. its style is as innovative now as it was in diderot's time, and the ideas being articulated, then ground-breaking, are still worth some thoughts. for a work of this age, it's surprisingly easy to be read, and the difficulties arise from elsewhere then expected. the storyline is permanently interrupted by stories, dialogues, and the narrator, suddenly starting to talk to the reader about the trustworthiness of the former reports, so sometimes it's hard to reorientate onself in this jungle of tales.

but somehow it's exactly the pleasure of finding the way, following the narrator's ideas, thoughts and stories on fatalism, predestination, free will, love, coincidence, danger, implausibleness which makes this book a real treasure and a fun to read. if above all you get a first hand sample of the philosophy of diderot, and of the ideas of the french enlightenment in general, then why not?...more

Read Laurence Sterne's 'The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman' first; otherwise this book will seem more original and strange than it really was, plus you won't get half the allusions. Diderot took up Sterne's mantle (and some of his narrative) and somehow made the tone even more lighthearted, added some elements forbidden to Sterne - blasphemy, social criticism, more explicit sexual references. It also lacks the weight of Tristram Shandy, as the digressions are limited to a few paRead Laurence Sterne's 'The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman' first; otherwise this book will seem more original and strange than it really was, plus you won't get half the allusions. Diderot took up Sterne's mantle (and some of his narrative) and somehow made the tone even more lighthearted, added some elements forbidden to Sterne - blasphemy, social criticism, more explicit sexual references. It also lacks the weight of Tristram Shandy, as the digressions are limited to a few pages at most, instead of Sterne's massive doses. In its pace, continual interruptions punctuating (and then then mocking) any character's statement or story that begins to take a somber tome. The book has a very modern feel, prescient in its suitability for an attention deficit generation....more

Mildly amusing, but mostly exasperating. I know that the point here was to be different from other novels and to bite the proverbial thumb at your traditional narrative, and all that was interesting to a point. I just didn't get that excited about any of the characters or the stories they were trying to tell. Between the interruptions built into the novel and the actual interruptions of life, I could never remember what was going on or who anyone was.One thing that interested me that was mentionMildly amusing, but mostly exasperating. I know that the point here was to be different from other novels and to bite the proverbial thumb at your traditional narrative, and all that was interesting to a point. I just didn't get that excited about any of the characters or the stories they were trying to tell. Between the interruptions built into the novel and the actual interruptions of life, I could never remember what was going on or who anyone was.One thing that interested me that was mentioned in the introduction to my edition (Penguin Classics) was that this book pushed the boundaries of class distinction a bit. Most obviously, Jacques the servant is more clever and interesting than his master, and a more important character. The book has a hearty dose of peasanty bawdiness and more rustic settings during a period when most novels dealt with aristocratic propriety in Paris. Actually, I think I liked the introduction better than the book itself. Sad.I'd recommend Jacques the Fatalist to anyone who enjoyed Tristram Shandy and/or Candide. It reminded me of both of those (though I haven't actually read the former myself). ...more

Much is made of Diderot's rather bald appropriations from Sterne's "Tristram Shandy." Diderot made no secret of it-- his book is, in many ways, the Dionysian face of that book (! if that can be said with a straight face). Just look at Sterne's material-- war, and the wounds that result; Diderot, on the other hand, skips lightly past the battlefield to the real seat of Uncle Toby's wound, the heart, and its battles.* As such, Jacques put me more in mind of "The Decameron," or even "Don Quixote" (Much is made of Diderot's rather bald appropriations from Sterne's "Tristram Shandy." Diderot made no secret of it-- his book is, in many ways, the Dionysian face of that book (! if that can be said with a straight face). Just look at Sterne's material-- war, and the wounds that result; Diderot, on the other hand, skips lightly past the battlefield to the real seat of Uncle Toby's wound, the heart, and its battles.* As such, Jacques put me more in mind of "The Decameron," or even "Don Quixote" (and there, again, the blending of love and war). The structure is Sterne's, but Sterne's structure itself has its roots in "Don Quixote." And in the 1001 Nights, of course.

Whatever its provenance, Diderot's novel is as funny as any of the above-named books, and as surprising.

As I was reading Barth's "Friday Book" and "Further Fridays" in tandem with this, I noticed that there are a few tales within tales here. I was not so concerned (as Barth is) that I noted the degrees thereof, but I was interested to note that, unlike 1001 Nights (as Barth points out), at several points, those tales within tales do affect their framing tales, and threaten to affect the larger frame tale (and, like 1001 Nights, frequently reflect their frames, if less explicitly than 1001 Nights). I think it fair to say that Diderot was more interested in those effects than in the tales themselves, and took a great deal of pleasure in the bifurcations that resulted.

Finally, as Robert Loy's notes point out, not only did Diderot borrow heavily from Sterne, but also from any number of other popular stories of the time (as had Bocaccio, Cervantes, and Chaucer (among many others) in their own times).

*But then, neither book is really entirely concerned with war or with love. In fact, neither book is really concerned with war or love at all, really, except as an excuse for their telling. ...more

This review has been hidden because it contains spoilers. To view it,
click here.Favorite quote: "Do we control our destiny or does our destiny control us?" It was written in the 1700's. I just assumed that because it was written so long ago that it would be difficult reading but it's not at all. It's about a guy named Jacques who believes that everything happens because it was written in the heavens and that destiny essentially controls everything, and he's very funny. He has a Master who argues with him a lot. The best part of the book is that author just periodically stopFavorite quote: "Do we control our destiny or does our destiny control us?" It was written in the 1700's. I just assumed that because it was written so long ago that it would be difficult reading but it's not at all. It's about a guy named Jacques who believes that everything happens because it was written in the heavens and that destiny essentially controls everything, and he's very funny. He has a Master who argues with him a lot. The best part of the book is that author just periodically stops writing about the characters and talks to the readers about whats going on in the story and other nonsense.

Here's my favorite part: Jacques and his Master part ways for a bit and the author stops the story and tells you, the reader, that you have to choose who to follow and then tells you reasons why you should or shouldn't follow each guy and this is his description of Master: "There's not a lot going on in his head. If he happens to say something sensible, it's either because he's remembered something someone else said or has blurted something out without thinking. He has two eyes just like you and me, but most of the time you can't tell if he's using them to look with. He's not asleep but he's not quite awake either. He just exists--that's his normal state--like an automation." This is fabulous stuff! "He just exists" I had my husband's ipod engraved with this quote, "Life is too short to just barely exist" NOFX (a punk band) and it's a philosophy to live by. Now I'm not saying that a life is wasted because someone just exists by my standards. Only the owner of a life can deem it a success or failure or a waste. I just think that everyone should live life to the fullest. So now I have to compare people to things that can be full, maybe things that hold liquid. Some people are teaspoons, while others are oceans, but either one can be full....more

When I mentioned to some French friends that I was reading Jacques le Fataliste et Son Maitre, written in the l770's. I thought they might show some enthusiasm for this French "classic", or at least a "curiosity". Instead, they rolled their eyes and asked why? Good question. I read somewhere that it was a French version of Lawrence Sterne's TRISTAM SHANDY, as well as a riff on Don Quixote, so I became curious and read it. It's worth the read and is often a very funny book. the humor even emergesWhen I mentioned to some French friends that I was reading Jacques le Fataliste et Son Maitre, written in the l770's. I thought they might show some enthusiasm for this French "classic", or at least a "curiosity". Instead, they rolled their eyes and asked why? Good question. I read somewhere that it was a French version of Lawrence Sterne's TRISTAM SHANDY, as well as a riff on Don Quixote, so I became curious and read it. It's worth the read and is often a very funny book. the humor even emerges in my time-intensive French reading skills.

It's "road" story about a voyage taken by servant Jacques and his Master, full of running jokes, stories told by each, authorial intrusions asking the reader what he expects from a story anyway, jokey pedantic footnotes on sources. I suppose at the bottom (if there is a "bottom") of this long shaggy dog narrative, is the philosophical question of whether one follows his fantasy, disguised as reason, or his reason which often a dangerous fantasy. Sound like Don Quixote? Yes, and it's no accident, Diderot being a shameless and unapologetic borrower from other writers.

More specifically, who sets the "rules" for what can be included in a story? Aristotle's dictums come up, of course, but they're found inadequate. Jacques undermines the rules of literature, and life, by pointing out that what we think of as "good" often leads to "evil" and apparent evil to good, so one never quite know where one is going. His solution? - It's all being "written above", willed by God.

One of the running jokes is a request for details on Jacques' amorous past adventures. He is not too forthcoming, but an irony is that there is plenty of sex and bawdiness supplied in most of the stories that are told as they continue on their travels which end with the Master being sent to prison for having fathered a bastard son. What will become of the son? Who knows? - he may become a good and respected person, or he may become a scoundrel. Whatever happens is "written above". In an odd way, an appropriate ending - what will be the fate of Diderot's "bastard" mishmash of what could loosely be called a novel? If the reader thinks this is a impossible question to answer, Diderot suggests that he supply his own ending.

In a postcript, an "editor" finds three additions, not included in the original story. Ttwo of which he thinks are authentic, and the third clearly spurious. More questions, more uncertainty. In Kurt Vonnegut's words, so it goes. ...more

I dreamed I was in "sunny Somerset," England, but it was night. I was finishing dinner at Henry Fielding's house, and Jonathan Swift and Laurence Sterne were also there. We had dined on cold meats and red wine. Three hound dogs were dozing near the fire, and I played with some dried fruit while I listened to the three men's conversation. The atmosphere is one I would confidently define as "jovial." Fielding, Swift, and Sterne were talking about the Odyssey and how epic, poetry, and tragedy wereI dreamed I was in "sunny Somerset," England, but it was night. I was finishing dinner at Henry Fielding's house, and Jonathan Swift and Laurence Sterne were also there. We had dined on cold meats and red wine. Three hound dogs were dozing near the fire, and I played with some dried fruit while I listened to the three men's conversation. The atmosphere is one I would confidently define as "jovial." Fielding, Swift, and Sterne were talking about the Odyssey and how epic, poetry, and tragedy were inescapably tied together in every aspect and in every moment of human experience. Sterne added that tragedy, epic, and poetry are respectively the head, the body and the tail of a cat rolling down the stairs.

In that moment, the dogs started barking and Denis Diderot made his appearance on the dining room's door. He was carrying a tray of French pastries because that was his birthday. That reminded me and everybody that it was my birthday, too, in a moment that was all too Non-Alice-In-Wonderland-ish.*

As we picked our beignets filled with chantilly creme, I approached Diderot and I asked him about his Jacques The Fatalist. How such a funny, light-hearted, picaresque novel full of love and friendship could be so perfect and also contain lines so beautiful as...

"The first promise exchanged by two beings of flesh was at the foot of a rock that was crumbling into dust; they took as witness for their constancy a sky that is not the same for a single instant; everything changed in them and around them, and they believed their hearts free of vicissitudes. O children! always children!"

And then I wasn't in Henry Fielding's house anymore, but I was sitting on a rock that was quickly crumbling to pieces, and I looked above, and the stars and the moon were racing away across the sky.

Denis Diderot (October 5, 1713 – July 31, 1784) was a French philosopher, art critic, and writer. He was a prominent persona during the Enlightenment and is best known for serving as co-founder and chief editor of and contributor to the Encyclopédie.Diderot also contributed to literature, notably with Jacques le fataliste et son maître (Jacques the Fatalist and his Master), which emulated LaurenceDenis Diderot (October 5, 1713 – July 31, 1784) was a French philosopher, art critic, and writer. He was a prominent persona during the Enlightenment and is best known for serving as co-founder and chief editor of and contributor to the Encyclopédie.Diderot also contributed to literature, notably with Jacques le fataliste et son maître (Jacques the Fatalist and his Master), which emulated Laurence Sterne in challenging conventions regarding novels and their structure and content, while also examining philosophical ideas about free will. Diderot is also known as the author of the dialogue, Le Neveu de Rameau (Rameau's Nephew), upon which many articles and sermons about consumer desire have been based. His articles included many topics of the Enlightenment.

As a philosopher Diderot speculated on free will and held a completely materialistic view of the universe; he suggested all human behavior is determined by heredity. He therefore warned his fellow philosophers against an overemphasis on mathematics and against the blind optimism that sees in the growth of physical knowledge an automatic social and human progress. He rejected the Idea of Progress. In his opinion, the aim of progressing through technology was doomed to fail. He founded his philosophy on experiment and the study of probabilities. He wrote several articles and supplements concerning gambling, mortality rates, and inoculation against smallpox for the Encyclopédie. There he discreetly but firmly refuted d'Alembert's technical errors and personal positions on probability....more

“The fact is that she was terribly undressed and I was extremely undressed too. The fact is that I still had my hand where she didn't have anything and she had hers where the same wasn't quite true of me. The fact is that I found myself underneath her and consequently she found herself on top of me.”
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